


Part One: Slouching Toward Bethlehem

by PoisonKisses



Series: Eternal Rose [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham City Sirens (Comics)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi, Succubus, vampire Ivy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:14:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29092587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoisonKisses/pseuds/PoisonKisses
Summary: For two hundred and fifty years, Ivy has walked the earth. A vampire, a succubus, she leads as lonely a life as possible, terrified of destroying the lives of the humans around her, and settling in Gotham, a place populated by so many terrible humans, humans she can justify taking what she needs from, she has found at least some measure of contentment.The beautiful girl on her favorite train upsets the delicate balance she's attained, and even after a solid feeding, she's drawn to her.But as Harley becomes a part of her life, as she finds herself drawn back towards the light, towards people, and starts learning to live and love again, can she continue to justify putting the beautiful girl's life in danger?And when true darkness arrives in Gotham, will she be able to go back to her shadowy half-life, or will she stand and fight for her one chance at happiness?
Relationships: Poison Ivy/Harley Quinn
Series: Eternal Rose [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2134113
Comments: 7
Kudos: 46





	Part One: Slouching Toward Bethlehem

Sundown

I wish it was more poetic. More romantic. I wish I could say when I wake up in the evening, I slowly crawl out of the pit of sleep, lazily, sensuously stretch. I wish I could say I doze, or hit the snooze alarm, or any one of a thousand other things people do between sleep and wakefulness. Unfortunately, that’s not how it happens. One moment I’m oblivious to the world around me. Dark. The next I’m fully awake.

The smell hits me first. The room is so dark even I can’t see much beyond a little grey light peeking through thick drapes over the air conditioning unit under the window.

Coppery, rich, and meaty, but it’s a smell gone bad. Putrid. Dead. Rotten. I want to add a like me to that statement, but it wouldn’t be true. The blood I smell is dead, and while I’m not technically alive, I’m not dead either.

It surrounds me, and as I sit up, listening to the clicks of the A/C coming on with a loud, whirring groan, I realize I’m sticky with it.

“Fuck.” I say out loud, trying to remember the night before. The asshole picking me up at the bar. Hunting is so easy for me, too easy, depressingly easy. I literally dress up in something besides a baggy hoody, sit in a public place, let my hair flow loose, and make eye contact with any man in the place.

His name was...I have to think about it for a moment. Thomas. No. Tommy. A Doctor, I think. “Hey there, you look like you could use some company.” He’d sat next to me, tall and broad-shouldered, handsome. The kind of arrogant good looks so many young girls fall for, have fallen for, have been falling for to the tune of thousands of years. Spiky hair with a lot of product in it. I could smell the acrid stench of mousse and hair spray. A square jaw with a hint of a five o’clock shadow. Body spray. I mean, seriously, was he doused in AXE? I remember having to stifle a laugh “Can I buy you a drink?”

I remember agreeing, letting him get me something suitably girly. A cosmo. I remember the way his steely gaze kept dropping to my cleavage. How he’d tried to loom next to me, his size taking up my space. He was a dyed-in-the-wool “alpha male.” His suit was Armani. That was a Rolex on his wrist. He had perfect, white teeth, and even though he was north of thirty and probably closer to forty, he was still picking up women who, like me, looked twenty two at best. He was used to getting his way.

I laughed at his jokes, letting him talk about himself, men are ridiculously easy to play. He managed to drop he was a surgeon. Multiple homes. Old money, I gathered, and tried to place his name, Elliot. There are a lot of old money names in Gotham, names that were all over the society pages, names in the captions of pictures in the papers. I remember asking about his friend, his wing man, another big, handsome, broad-shouldered guy. Harvey, a lawyer, a guy who raised his glass when we looked over at him.

I let him know I was into it. The chemistry between them was unmistakeable--that repressed attraction for each other, that subconscious, latent homosexuality--a thing that could never be expressed in the light of day--or at least the dim club lights. They needed an excuse to touch each other, and using my deliciously female body as an excuse was something they couldn’t pass up. They were hungry for the experience.

I was just hungry.

Fuck.

I pull my knees up to my chest. I’m naked but for the gore, the blood laid on thick all over my skin. I can smell them. Their blood. Their cum. I can’t hear their heartbeats.

Fuck. FUCK.

I’d lost control again, and after an hour of rocking back and forth, fighting tears, I stand and turn on the lights.

They lay in bed together, ironically holding each other in a way they’d never done alive. The sheets are a pink and red tangled mess around their bodies, stained from the wounds in their throats, their thighs, where I'd bitten, where I’d fed. They’d died, moaning in ecstasy, slipping away, and I was sated with blood and sex. It’s cold in the room, the cheap hotel air conditioning working overtime to keep out the heat and humidity. That’s good. They won’t start smelling for some time.

It bothers me a little at how matter-of-fact, how clinical, I can be. I shower, quickly, washing off the blood and bodily fluids. My clothes were thrown into a corner, and a careful inspection tells me I was fortunate to not get any blood on them.

I crank the A/C down as low as it will go, and then I fish Tommy’s phone out of his jacket pocket and unlock it, having seen him do it and memorizing the code. He has the ap, so I pull it up, pre-purchase the room for six more nights. I pull up his Facebook. 

“Loving some quality time with best bro and some killer blow!” I post, then leave it on the table.

Harvey has a legit pocket knife. Not some little thing either, but a three inch folding job. Good. I flick it open and replace my bite marks with stab wounds. Any good medical examiner would tell in an instant, but with luck, the cops will just look past it, given the obvious homoerotic nautre of the scene. I take their wallets, strip them of cash I then tuck into my pockets. I can’t do anything about the cameras, but if luck is on my side they won’t be functional anyway. I find Tommy’s keys and then put the do not disturb sign on the handle. Hopefully it will be days before they start looking.

I drive across Gotham, and I’m happy that it’s still pretty early evening. A quick stop at a small hardware store and a couple cans of paint later, I drive down to the East End, park in an abandoned lot, spray paint “FUCK ALL PIGS” on the windshield, I take my leave. The whole situation is incoherent, and the Gotham Police are all so inept and corrupt it will never be detangled. It doesn't have to be a perfect cover up, just muddied waters.

I’ve been covering up accidents for a long time. It’s past midnight by the time I work my way to the nearest station, to my train home.

And of course, she’s on it.

FUUUUUCK.

I am so lost in thought it doesn’t even occur to me til I’m walking past her until I glance at her, just as she looks at me. And we lock eyes.

Hers are big and clear, crystal blue, like a nearly translucent lagoon and a white sandy beach. I’m caught, watching her pupils dilate, noticing the fine lines of red veins, the puffiness--she’s been crying. The makeup around her eyes is old, maybe more than a day, uneven, and smudged. Her cute little pink lips form a shocked ‘O’ as she stares back at me, her eyes widening as she gets lost in mine, consumed. I wish I had a switch--someway to turn it off--but I don’t, and just like that, she’s mine for the taking.

Clinically, I notice the signs. The quickening of her pulse, the catch in her breathing, the sudden, spicy smell of arousal. I wanted to admire her from afar. To pass her by like a mysterious ship sailing past the Pequod in the night.

Didn’t I?

I know she takes this train. I keep riding it, even though I know I can’t have her. I constantly tempt myself with things I can’t have. Pushing my control to the breaking point. Watching her and desiring her, but ultimately walking away. The thought occurs to me, in that instant, that I’m putting others in danger. Did Harvey and Tommy pay the price for my unfulfilled need for this beautiful girl? Did Eddy and his nameless loser friends, because they had the gall to interact more with her in their inane attempt at harassment than I have in months of watching her on this train?

I don’t know how much time has past as we’ve stared into each other’s eyes, and I see her gaze flick down to my lips, and I lick them self-consciously. It’s a habit, and I know that to her, they’re impossibly red, and plump, and pouty, and wet. And goddammit I scent the spike of arousal in the air, see her eyes flicker, and I know that simple act will be visiting her in her dreams tonight. It’s the curse Jason left me with all those years ago. I’m not just a vampire, a blood drinker. I’m a succubus, and I don’t just feed on their blood. I feed on their sex.

I should leave. I should turn and go, and never take this train again. I can disappear and I’ll never be more than a half-remembered fantasy for her, a blurry dream she masturbates to, a figment of imagination she remembers from her most excessive nocturnal emissions.

I break the spell, the moment, and quickly rush past her, practically running to the back of the train car, to my self-imposed, imaginary little fortress of solitude. I’m hating myself with a passion as I sit, tucking in to myself, pulling my hood deeper over my eyes, letting the tresses of rich red curls that always frame my face cover me like a curtain. My fortress’s walls going up protectively. I’m safe here. Safe and alone. I keep telling myself that as I tuck my knees up to my chest, put my earbuds in, desperately search through my phone for some sort of music to cut me off, to drown out the seductive call of her heartbeat, the sensual sound of her cute accent, the obnoxious music of her laugh. 

Now is not the time to play my temptation game. I can’t think about her at all. Even though I’m freshly fed, it’s not enough, because at the end of the day my feeding is always better with someone I desire. Tommy and Harvey meant nothing to me, eating them was about survival.

Eating her would be pleasure. Like the difference between steak and spam.

“Hi.”

I freeze

“Hi, sorry, got ya phones in? Can ya hear me?” She’s close, and now I can smell her proximity. She’s close enough I know, without looking up, I could reach out and touch her. Slowly I raise my eyes and there she is, standing somewhat awkwardly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She has her backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder, and there’s a tremulous, hopeful, nervous smile trying to play on her full lips. She’s wearing a bright red lipstick that’s slightly smudged, and oh my god I want to kiss her.

She meets my gaze and gives me a half wave, still not sure if I can hear her.

“Hi.” My voice sounds impossibly deep to my ears, scratchy and breathe, especially compared to her nasal accent.

“Hey, I know this is a little weird, so I’m just gonna come right out and say it,” she begins, and I’m mesmerized by her lips--the flash of a tongue ring. “I’m pretty good at readin’ people, and I can tell yer dealin’ with some stuff. I don’t wanna pry or nothin’, but I get the feelin’ ya might need a friend. This city sucks,” and she laughs nervously. I feel my lips quirk up at the corner, and I don’t remember the last time I honestly, seriously laughed, and yet I want to laugh with this beautiful girl. “Anyway, this is probably weird and forward and I promise I ain’t like an axe murderer or nothin’.” She holds out a piece of notebook paper. “Here. Just, yknow, gimme a call sometime, or text me, y’know, if ya need someone to talk ta, or maybe a friend.” I slowly take the paper from her, and she quickly adds, “Ok, this is my stop, I gotta run. See ya round!” 

Then she bolts for the door, running away.

I should ball it up, throw it in the trash, and never take this train again. I should spare her what’s coming. 

Harley. And a number.

Her name is Harley?

“Harley,” I whisper to myself, feeling the word on my lips, the way it curls around my fangs.

I tuck the paper in my pocket, but I’ve already memorized it. 

I get off at my exit, but I’m not paying attention as I pick my way around the piles of trash on the sides of the street, awaiting pickup by ancient, even prehistoric, garbage trucks later tonight or better yet early tomorrow.

I don’t even remember punching in my number to open the door, taking the stairs two at a time to get to my floor, unlocking my door.

My apartment is quiet and dark. Empty. Technically, I rent two, side by side, under different names. This one, the one I let myself into, is my ‘show’ apartment. I keep it up like a person would--furniture, TV, Playstation, computer, racks of movies and games, bookshelves, and of course, plants of all descriptions. Potted, hanging, anyplace I can fit them. I love plants, and unlike most of my kind, they love me. I even stock the refrigerator with a few groceries to keep up the illusion.

In my bedroom, behind a wall of clothes in the closet, a hole leads to my other apartment. It’s bare, secure, with barred and boarded up windows, a securely barred door. A pile of thick electric blankets and space heaters is where I sleep.

I pull out the paper and carefully put it on my refrigerator door. I can smell her on it, the delicate scent of her hand lotion. I pull out my phone and add her name and number to my contact list.

I might have a new friend.

I have a friend.

Harley.


End file.
